What Goes Around...
by Xyggurat
I'd gotten a bit cocky over the years; that should come as no surprise. When a guy can do the sort of things I do, it's hard not to feel a little superior. I don't mean to brag, but I've come around to the fact that I'm special. No, not in the whole drooling and running headfirst into walls sense. Special, as in better.
There was a time when I was only special on the inside. A little quicker on the uptake, you might say. It's not that I'm smarter than most people are, but systems come easily to me. When I learn part of a thing, I can extract the other information. It makes the rest of you seem slow by comparison. God help me if I ever have to explain to you exactly what it is that I do, when I--
I know, I know--it sounds arrogant, doesn't it? But look at things from my perspective. When you talk to your dog, do you expect it to grasp all of the concepts you put before it? Of course not, it'll bark, maybe it'll even cock its head as if it's listening, but it's not your equal. So in a way you should be thankful. You have droves and droves of equals. I've only ever encountered one.
But my story begins a while before that, back in the days when I thought I was just like you. Not even one of the better ones. Small, weak, unimpressive. All of the work I've done to erase those days feels like such a waste sometimes: I doubt anyone from back then would even remember I existed.
Well, maybe one or two.
My first was Travis White. I can remember how I saw him then: tall, golden, and powerful, like a statue made flesh. God of the football field, king of quarterbacks, unchallenged leader of the high school jocks even though he was just a junior. He looked like summer made flesh, with eyes as blue as the sky and teeth so straight and white they almost shone with their own light when he smiled. In a time when the features of his peers were still fighting through baby fat and acne, he already had a model's chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. All of this was outdone by the perfection of his body.
To call his build muscular would be a disservice. It's an imprecise word, making no distinction between athletic or musclebound, and Travis was neither. His body was, as I said, perfect--just the right amount of muscle to make his heavy pecs push up beneath the fabric of even the thickest shirt, to make his biceps turn into steely baseballs clad in blue veins when he bent his arms, to make his quads strain against the fabric of his denim jeans. His legs were spectacular, powerful and just slightly out of proportion with the rest of his body. They gave him a swagger when he walked.
I was never interested much in girls or boys before Travis. At the time, I wondered if my hormones had not yet awakened, and feared they never would. Certainly I was smaller than the other boys, a scant inch or two over five feet. I was skinny as a sparrow and pale, with dark hair and unimpressive features. For these reasons, I never had to deal with awkwardly rejecting potential lovers. People were as disinterested in me as I was in them.
All of that changed around Travis. When he walked down the halls to his locker, my eyes would follow the powerful, primal way his body moved, and how his thick chest would leap or solid biceps would jump when he'd heft his backpack. During the fall, when football season was at its height, he and other members of the football team would troop past the windows of my Algebra classroom. He never wore a shirt. Sweat would make his sun-bronzed pectorals glisten, or show off his precocious eight-pack of abdominals. Also obvious was the long, thick shape snaking down the leg of his athletic shorts. During these processions, my own, lesser, endowment grew so hard it felt like it could've burst through my jeans, and I was almost thankful that it was so small that no one would notice. Almost.
You can imagine the feelings that rushed through my head when he intercepted me in the hall one day. It was nearing the end of football season, and I knew the rest of my life would soon dissolve into a grey haze waiting for the hot days of the early school year to begin again. Towering over me, broad enough that I could not see the world beyond to either side of him, he cornered me by my locker. In an instant, heat shot to my face and groin, and I became uncomfortably aware of my heart pounding in my ears.
"Y-yes?" I stuttered.
"You're Sharp, right?" He cocked his head.
"What?"
"Kellen Sharp. The math kid," Travis said.
His assertion made no sense to me. I never did anything to distinguish myself in classes, although I usually managed A's to keep my foster parents satisfied. Maybe my wits were addled by the closeness of him, the sweetly masculine scent of the Abercrombie cologne he wore or the spicy musk of his body underneath, but I nodded, wordless.
"Cool," he said. "You want to help me with math? I need to pass this test, or I can't play next game."
I nodded again.
"You don't talk much," he said, displaying a white smirk. "You sure you can teach me this stuff?"
"I can," I said. It came out as a squeak.
"Right, then meet at my place tonight. After my practice. It's off Old Mill Road, the big white house with the slate roof."
And then he was gone. He did not wait around to offer more information or see if I understood, he just expected me to know when his practice would be over, and to do as I was told. To his credit, there was no hesitation on my part. I never once considered disobeying him.
The rest of the day made no sense. I was almost constantly hard, and every time my cock threatened to soften, I'd remember his scent, or the sight of him towering over me. Unable to ignore my dick, which was a sad four inches even in its rock-hard state, I came three times before I was ready to get out and get changed. I rushed home after school and showered. Both of my foster parents were out for the evening, so they did not hear my shouts of pleasure.
I'd never given thought to what clothes I should wear, but abruptly, that sort of thing had begun to matter. It took me twenty minutes of frantic deliberation to settle on a t-shirt and shiny basketball shorts. The t-shirt, a small, hung loose on my bony shoulders. The basketball shorts were too long, but I dared to hope that they might make me look somewhat athletic.
I ran most of the way to Travis's house, and when my legs were pained and breaths almost painful to draw, I stumbled the rest of the way. I did not feel like an athlete; the shorts had failed me, and now I was drenched in sweat on a hot day in late September. Only the thought of seeing Travis buoyed my sinking spirits.
He lived in a big house with an expansive yard. A high fence went all the way around the back of the property, cutting it off from the woods beyond. I didn't know cars, but the ones in the driveway looked nice and new and expensive. Big wrought iron gates guarded the entrance to the courtyard in front of the house. The Whites had money, I realized, and lots of it. It seemed monstrously unfair that Travis should have his looks, his confidence, his athletic skill, his body--and also be rich, but that was a fleeting thought, banished in a second by the sound of Travis's bright red convertible screaming down the street.
He came to a sudden stop in front of the gate, hopped out, and waved, his smile charming. That smile turned into an ugly glower--at least, as ugly as one on his face could be--the moment that he reached the gate. He fumbled around in the pockets of his football shorts, then swore. He grabbed his cell phone from inside the convertible and made a couple of calls, but no one appeared to answer. Face red, he turned to look at me.
"No key," he said. "Guess we can do this tomorrow."
I nodded. The way my spirits came crashing down with that pronouncement made me want to curl up and die. Instead, I mumbled something noncommittal and started off toward my house, shuffling my feet as I walked. They'd probably yell at me at home for getting dust all over my shoes, but that was the furthest thing from my mind.
"Wait," Travis said, halting me.
I turned. "What?"
"I have to go to the movies tomorrow, and the test is on Thursday. There's a spot about a mile from here in the woods where we can sit, and you can teach me this shit," he said. He did not wait for my confirmation, only plucked his backpack out of the convertible's back seat and struck off toward the woods.
I followed as if we were tethered together. Despite the darkening sky, the air was still very warm, and my legs were already sore. I stumbled behind Travis as he marched confidently down a worn path, marveling at the view from behind. He had a wide back, his thick lats lending his body a dramatic taper that was visible even underneath his letterman's jacket. I barely took note of the trees or the birds singing, so intent was my focus on his muscled ass. It was not a work of art; it was a drug, and I was thoroughly addicted.
He came to a stop in a small open clearing around a granite boulder. The top of the boulder was flat, almost like a table. He dropped off his backpack before stripping off his letterman's jacket and laying it down reverently. He sat, paying little attention to me, and pulled a thick Algebra book from the backpack. Only then did he look up at me, his eyebrows rising in expectation. I sat.
The lesson did not go as well as I had hoped. All of the blood that should have been powering my brain was otherwise engaged, and I caught myself several times stumbling over explanations to concepts I knew handily. Travis offered no complaint, he nodded and sat there with an intent look on his face, as if it was taking all of his mind's power to drink this information in. I'd finished explaining exactly who Fermat was and why his Theorem was important when Travis cut me off with a slice of his hand.
"Enough, enough, jeez," he said, leaning back in the grass. From where he was sitting, I could almost see up the leg of his shorts. "How do you not get tired of this stuff?"
"I do," I said. "It's just--"
My tone must have sounded defensive, as he waved the rest of my response away. "I'm sorry, bro. I think I get some of it, but I have a headache and it's hot." He stood, graceful as a tiger's leap, and tugged his shirt off over his head. It snagged on his pecs for a seductive moment, and then his body was free.
"Wow," I said, my heart thundering in my chest.
He laughed, the sound rich and cool like chilled cream. "It's not that great. There are lots of guys on the team bigger than I am." Nonetheless, he flexed his arms, and two huge mounds of muscle wrapped in veins pushed up beneath his skin. Miraculously, I did not faint. I tried not to let my gaze linger too long on his body as he sat back down across from me. "All it takes is lifting weights."
"I'd never get as big as you," I said. "Plus I don't know how to lift weights."
"You're a bit scrawny, I'll give you that," he said. "But don't say never. Maybe you've got the genes for it. You wanna see something cool?"
I nodded.
He grinned. Sitting before me, he let his arms fall loose at his sides. He started to bounce his pectorals, one first, then the other, then both at the same time. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch them, to run my hands over the rock-hard abs below, to reach into his shorts and awaken the slumbering monster there. Another part of me wanted the moment to last forever. I would have been content frozen in time on a hot autumn evening, in awe of Travis White. But the moment ended.
His pecs stopped dancing, and I looked up. His eyes were on me. More specifically, they were on a particular part of my anatomy. I followed his gaze down to my athletic shorts, the ones I'd worn to be more like him, and I saw what he did. My cock, my tiny cock was outlined in bold relief, hard as a rock. Precum seeping from the head had left a dark mark in the fabric. I tried to shift my position, knowing it was already too late. My muscles turned to water, and I trembled like a frightened jackrabbit.
Travis looked at me, his face inscrutable. "Are you a fag?"
"No," I said, hurriedly. "I'm not."
"Why do you have a boner, then?"
"I don't--sometimes it just happens."
"If it happens around dudes, then you're a fag," he said, matter-of-factly. Then he did the last thing I expected. His arm snaked out, and he grabbed my cock through the fabric. I yelped at the sudden sensation of his strong, hot hand on my dick. He flexed his other arm. "I bet this is what's turning you on, isn't it? Everyone on the team envies my arms. They're fucking huge, seventeen inches already and they'll be bigger next year." My cock leapt. "Yep," he concluded. "You're in to them."
A stir of movement in the periphery of my vision drew my attention to his crotch. There, to my shock, a terrible transformation was occurring. I had thought his package looked big in those shorts, but now it was enlarging, lengthening, like a firehose reeling outward. He glanced down at it with an evil look in his eyes.
"Mine's bigger," he said.
My cock leapt again. "Are you--"
"No," he said. "I've been fucking girls since I was thirteen. Wouldn't fuck a dude, but sometimes there aren't any girls around."
The beast in his pants continued to expand. He pulled his hand from my cock and ran it over one striated pectoral, down over his sweat-sheened abs, and down beneath the waistband of his shorts. He started to tug on the staggering length of dick concealed by the fabric, and shut his eyes. His lips parted with a soft moan.
"You wanna suck it?" Travis asked.
"Yes," I said, not even a heartbeat later.
He stood up and shucked his shorts off, an unceremonious maneuver. I looked up. His dick was easily double the length of mine, and three times the width. Even his big hands could not fit around it, but there was room for both on the shaft with space to spare. He stared down at it, as if he was surprised by its size, too. His glassy eyes made him look like he was drunk on the need for release.
"Put it in your mouth, fag," he said, but the nickname was oddly gentle, playful almost. "Watch the teeth."
I'd never sucked a dick before. I crawled toward him on my knees and braced myself using his tree-trunk legs. They were hot and sweaty and covered in a light dusting of hair that looked like spun sunlight. The sky above was turning pink and bruised blue, and wind whispered through the trees.
I bent forward and took the head into my mouth. I could not manage much more than that, it was so thick. A taste at once salty, sweet, and bitter graced my tongue, and the scent of musk from his huge, egg-sized balls assaulted my nose, at once pleasant and overpowering. I felt a hand on the back of my head, and then his legs were flexing as he thrust his dick forward into my mouth, so deep that I almost gagged. Through it all, I was aware of a sudden burst of pleasure and a feeling of wet warmth in my pants as I came without touching myself.
My skin tingled. The heat from his body found an answering warmth deep in the heart of me. It felt like someone was building a fire in my chest. I would have panicked if it did not feel so good. There was a sudden solidity to me that I'd never experienced before, yet the sensation was somehow right, as if this was something I had always been missing, a piece to a heretofore incomplete puzzle.
The hand left the back of my head, and his dick pulled out, leaving me reeling. Instantly, the heat vanished. I heard him laugh, a cruel laugh, and something thick, heavy and wet smacked hard against my face. I recovered just in time for him to slap me across the face with his cock again.
"You want it, don't you, bitch," he said.
I nodded, and he gave me a shove, sending me sprawling into the grass. When I righted myself, he was seated on the boulder, his shorts discarded entirely. He beckoned toward his cock, and I devoured it hungrily. The warmth returned. He thrust in and out of my mouth with brutal abandon, not caring that I choked in the hugeness of his nine massive inches. The dick became easier to take as he went on, and we settled into a rhythm before I noticed another strange sensation, a feeling of tightness all over my body.
I tried to pull off, but the hand on the back of my neck was like steel. Even when the first tearing sound from my right shoulder reached my ears, he did not let go, but at that point, I shook off his hand and fell back into the grass. He sat up on the boulder, eyes still lazy with pleasure, but they widened. A look akin to fear crossed his face.
"Holy shit," he rasped. "What happened to you?"
Continued in ...Comes Around